


Wedding Traditions of the Zonai People

by SpicyChestnut



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild
Genre: Alternate Universe, Arranged Marriage, Barbarian!Link, But its all set up for the smut, Cunnilingus, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Tagged BoTW for the inclusion of the Zonai but that's kinda it, There is kind of a story, Vaginal Sex, Wedding, Wedding Night, Zonai Chieftain Link, absolutely shameless smut, blood covenant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:33:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27868433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpicyChestnut/pseuds/SpicyChestnut
Summary: Zelda’s fate is sealed when, shortly after their nineteenth year, her twin sister is revealed to be the inheritor of the White Goddess’ blessing. It is the role of the second child to serve the Goddess’ will through marriage, and so she resigns herself to a life among whatever race the sages divine she is to marry into.  Unfortunately for her, the sages return with news she is to marry into the Zonai, the most reclusive and poorly documented of the eight races. Perhaps that is why it is the Goddess’ will. Regardless, the news leaves her going into her own wedding blind—unaware and unprepared for the unique wedding traditions of the Zonai people.Or, an elaborate plot the sole purpose of which is to set up absolutely shameless smut.
Relationships: Link/Zelda (Legend of Zelda)
Comments: 34
Kudos: 386





	1. Pledges

**Author's Note:**

> **Credit where credit is due:**  
>  The Faronian!Link and Dragon!Link [whumptober fics](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27405343/chapters/66981745) of [EmbyrInItalics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/embyrinitalics/pseuds/embyrinitalics) got Barbarian/Zonai Link back on my mind in October (highly recommended reading btw), and reading [Savageries of the Heart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27530815/chapters/67328587) by [LorelyLantana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LorelyLantana/pseuds/LorelyLantana) is a large part of what spurred me to actually sit down and write this (also recommended reading!)
> 
> I have been _stuck_ and just... unable to write longform smut (is that a thing?) for a while now, and I'm hoping maybe this will help rattle something loose? Either way I hope you all enjoy! It was good practice and I had a lot of fun writing it. Shoutout to SockSock and MuseLover1901 for their input on the summary. Thoughts and comments welcome as always.

Zelda stands with her delegation before the Zonai warriors, trying not to shake like a leaf. It had been easy to remain calm in the weeks beforehand, and even on the trip here. But now that she stands before what will soon become her people, the reality of her purpose settles like a stone in a still pond.

She doesn’t feel ready.

She had only a month to prepare. Zonai tradition dictates—according to castle scholars and the insistent Zonai ambassadors sent to negotiate—that the marriage of the Chieftain must be consecrated only on the holy day of their patron Deity Farosh—God of fertility and harvest; the day of the summer solstice. Thus, plans had to be rushed, leaving Zelda precious little time to find what information she could about the culture and traditions of her intended.

The Zonai are the most reclusive and poorly documented of the eight races of Hyrule. It is Zelda’s belief that this is, perhaps, why marrying into their tribe is the Goddess’ will. What better way to forge understanding than through such intimate intermingling? But this did little to alleviate her problem, which is the stunning lack of information available in the castle library on the cultural traditions of the Zonai—particularly those of marriage. All she is left with are sparse dictionaries and fragmented linguistic texts, and the burgeoning realization that she will have to go into her own wedding blind.

The Zonai warriors before her are dressed in furs and hides, their exposed skin bedecked in intricately painted symbols. They are a fierce and warlike tribe, and so far as Zelda has been able to determine their markings indicate some manner of social status. She has not, however, learned enough to distinguish what the symbols mean. She makes an educated guess, judging by their self-serious expressions and the small, carved bones which decorate the worn handles of their spears, that they are experienced fighters—likely serving under the Chieftain himself.

Though she knows little, she knows to show her respect—and how to do so. She bows, offering a series of rough arm gestures. The warriors seem impressed by her display, and return a similar gesture. Then with a wave of their arms they turn, and lead her and her small retinue through the city.

Due to the reclusive nature of the Zonai Capitol and the thick overgrowth of the Faron wilds, Zelda was instructed to be escorted by no more than a company of five. Thus, she has only the essentials: three guards, one translator, and one observer to validate the marriage. She and her groom-to-be will visit Hyrule Castle after the wedding here, that they may be formally congratulated by the King and given the blessing of her sister.

The wedding is to take place shortly before sunset, and Zelda feels anything but ready. She has prepared herself as best she can for the cultural divide, the language barrier she knows she will have to work through…

For her wedding night.

Still, a month is not enough time, and nerves cling to her like the insects buzzing in the humid air about her head.

After introductions and formalities, she is taken into a tent by several Zonai women who unceremoniously strip her of her Hylian travel clothes and slip her into an outfit of Zonai make. A leather wrap binds her breasts, furred hides are held by leather straps around her ankles and feet, and layers of roughly hewn linen are bound by a belt at her hips.

The outfit is different from their own—the leather softer, the cut more elegant. They style her hair in Zonai fashion as well: into dozens of small braids woven with bone beads which match the necklaces draped ceremonially about her neck. Then they set a crown atop her head—one which looks suspiciously like the shell of a hearty durian, it’s spikes spiraling in tight, fractal swirls. Then, finally, they reach for wooden bowls filled with dark purple liquid, and begin to paint her.

Their fingers are light, trailing carefully across her body in intricate patterns. Dark streaks are left in their wake, and though she can’t help the feeling of being covered in mud, neither can she deny the beauty of the patterns they create, and the care with which they make them.

The sun begins to set too soon, and the paint on her body has only just begun to dry when she is escorted through the sprawling stone city to a half-moon canyon, and the mouth of a massive stone dragon jutting out of the canyon’s rear wall. Zonai mill about the area, packed tight and eagerly awaiting her arrival. She can see her betrothed—the Chieftain Link, no where among the throng; or at least, she spots no sign of the lynel skull headdress he wears, which marks him their leader. Having never met him, she does not know what he looks like.

She is led inside the dragon’s mouth, into a dimly lit cave. Earth gives way to a stonework path, and soon she hears the burble of a spring. As her eyes adjust, she can see a large statue at the rear of the cave depicting a dragon with a massive, wavy horn jutting from its forehead. Light filters in weakly from natural skylights above, striking the dragon across its face and turning it’s stone visage into something fearsome and ethereal.

Her wondering gaze turns down. At the base of the statue stand two men. She immediately knows which is her betrothed. The lynel skull adorns his head—two long tusks and a row of jagged teeth shadowing his face, with a red mane running down his back. He stands tall and proud, broad-shouldered with a muscled abdomen decorated in swirling patterns similar to her own. Sharp blue eyes gaze at her from beneath his headdress—piercing like a bird of prey’s, but a deep dreamy blue like the waters of Lurelin Bay.

He is… incredibly handsome. And, if the bulge of his biceps and thighs are any indication, clearly incredibly strong. Her nerves resurface as she is brought next to him, her Zonai escort indicating for her to kneel. She does so, beside her groom. The Zonai man before them, dressed in elaborate robes of the same rough linen which adorns her waist, begins to speak.

His speech is long and animated. She does not fully understand it—catching only simple words here and there she had thought to learn in advance: union, fertility, peace, happiness, Farosh. She does not fully understand their religion, either, though she knows they worship the fertility God Farosh, and place great emphasis on family and unity within the tribe; just as the Goron worship the fire God Dinraal and place great cultural significance in metallurgy and mining.

The man, whom she can only assume to be a spiritual leader, finally falls quiet and gestures to her betrothed. Link turns to her and reaches for her hand. His fingers are rough and calloused, though they hold hers gently, palm-up. The man speaks again, his words growing animated before he once more falls silent, and reverently reaches for a dagger at his hip.

Zelda’s heart rate spikes as Link takes the dagger in his free hand, and positively gallops as he brings the knife to her palm. She tries to pull away, but Link holds her fast. She is breathing hard when her gaze meets his, openly afraid. For the first time since meeting him a soft smile breaks through his stoic exterior. His eyes are gentle—apologetic and understanding. He murmurs a single words only loud enough for her to hear, and the familiar Hylian takes her by surprise.

“Safe.”

She blinks at him, having not expected him to know her language. It is heavily accented, and the way his lips struggle to shape the word indicates it is still foreign. Clearly she wasn’t the only one to attempt to bridge the language gap. She is grateful; perhaps communication between them will flow more smoothly than she’d first thought. She quickly digs through her mind for a word to voice her fears.

 _“Hurt,”_ she murmurs in his tongue, tugging gently against his grip. He nods solemnly but doesn’t release her, replying softly:

“Short.”

She glances down to the dagger hovering above her palm, then to the spiritual leader waiting patiently beside them. With a breath she uncurls her fingers, and shuts her eyes.

She lets out a soft cry as the sting and the warmth of her seeping blood strike her at once, and she curls her fingers reflexively. She opens her eyes to see red dribbling onto the stone, and her stomach flips nervously. Link’s grip is gentle, reassuring as he coaxes her fingers back open, then places the handle of the dagger atop her cut palm, and carefully closes her fingers around it.

Her heart is still beating fast when he offers his own hand, turning her wrist to angle the blade over his palm. She stares at the dagger, then at him, and though she understands what she is supposed to do, anxiety stays her. She doesn’t want to do it wrong—isn’t sure she can hurt him. He offers her another smile and places his free hand atop her trembling fingers, and guides the dagger over his skin—demonstrating, reassuring. After a moment he releases her, and offers her a firm nod.

She closes her eyes and gathers her courage. She tries to be gentle, make it quick; but still she inhales sharply when she feels the blade slice through his flesh, and winces as she sees the blood dribble from the wound. But he remains unfazed, gently uncurling her fingers from the handle and returning the blade to outstretched hand of the man before them.

Then, he takes her sliced hand in his own, and joins their palms.

She has to remind herself to breathe as the man begins speaking again, her attention half-hearted as she calms her heart from the unexpected shock of the ritual. She will have to remember to inquire of its significance (as well as the rest of the wedding ceremony) later. She is brought back to the present when she feels a rough cloth wrap around their joined hands, binding them together. The man speaks low and reverently as he ties the fabric tight, then lifts their hands into the air. The undyed cloth is turning crimson.

_“Avock no karnon aeyo na Farosh, oleck ne oyzar vantu!”_

_Before Farosh are you bound by blood in sacred union._

Link bows his head beside her and Zelda quickly follows suit, biting back the ache of her palm. She watches in her periphery as the man moves to the water’s edge. He reaches for a strange shallow, oblong bowl—made of a material like nothing she has ever seen before. It is iridescent and shimmering in the pale light, and looks as though made of a yellowed opaque glass; but it has the rough gouges of carved wood, and so she is certain it couldn’t be.

He dips the bowl into the spring and returns to the pair, holding the bowl aloft as he utters a final, barking statement. Then he tilts the bowl, and the water pours smoothly out and onto their joined hands.

Zelda blinks away the droplets which splash onto her face and watches as the man begins to unwind the wet cloth. She pulls her hand back and turns her palm upward to examine the wound; but to her shock, the cut is gone—as well as the pain now that she thinks on it—and in its place is a long white scar. The spiritual leader examines both their hands—Link’s is similarly healed—and seems pleased by the marks. Then he grabs them by their wrists and leads them toward the mouth of the cave.

The crowd of Zonai in the clearing stands before them with bated breath. The man comes to a stop beneath the stone dragon’s teeth, and with sudden movements raises their palms into the air, showing their scars to the crowd. The people erupt into cheers, and the warriors which had earlier greeted her and her retinue push back the crowd to make a path. Link turns to her and offers her a dazzling smile, eyes bright and joyful, then takes her hand and leads her through it.

The feast which follows is sumptuous. Garlands of flowers decorate the central square of the city—a large open space encircled by carved stone fountains and lit by warm torchlight. Grilled fish, roasted meats, and all manner of fruits are arrayed down a long central table, at the head of which she sits with her new husband.

It is only once the intoxicating aroma of food reaches her she realizes how hungry she is, having been occupied with wedding preparations since midday. Between savory bites various Zonai whom she can only assume to be important political figures approach them to show their respect, and she offers her thanks each time in rough Zonai. Link seems pleased by this, and she gives him a shy smile.

“ _I_ … tried to… _learn_ … as much of… _your language_ … as I could,” she offers in a mix of broken Zonai and Hylian. “I didn’t—there wasn’t… _no time_ …”

He reaches forward to tuck a stray braid behind her ear and a blush creeps up her cheeks at his gentle touch.

“Thank you,” he replies in his heavy accent, voice rough and deep. “You are kind.” She feels the blush grow hotter, and a gentle flutter in her chest at the pointed use of her language.

Dessert is brought out, and the observer in her retinue approaches, speaking to Link in Hylian translated into rough Zonai by the interpreter. She sees Link roll his eyes as the observer begin to speak about paperwork and verification, and Zelda struggles not to laugh. They present him with several scrolls which he hastily signs. Then her retinue bids her congratulations and goodnight, departing for their lodgings without ceremony.

As the last of the food is devoured and the feast winds to a close, large drums are rolled into the square and players beat them in a heavy rhythm. A hush falls over the gathered celebrants. The spiritual leader returns, carrying two carved wood bowls, and Link rises, gesturing for her to rise with him. As he leads her to a platform behind their seats, where the man waits, an excited murmur ripples through the square.

The moon is high in the sky as the drum beats reach their thundering peak and wind down to a final, ringing beat. The man begins to speak, projecting out over the table of guests. He thrusts a bowl into each of their hands, and she eyes it critically. It is carved with… depictions of acts that would be considered obscene by more conservative Hylian standards, and is filled with a dark liquid. She takes a cautious sniff. Link is watching her and as she raises her head to meet his gaze, she summons the words as best she can.

_“What… what drink?”_

He smiles, cocking his head thoughtfully.

“ _Volksh ashtin_ wedding _aegorn_ drink.”

She eyes him with confusion, and he offers a quick clarification.

“ _Ist hacven_ … make pleasure _skohln tak eish_ , many children.”

Zelda resists the urge to balk as his explanation becomes clear, and instead offers a weak smile to show her appreciation. She supposes, for a culture which worships a fertility God, such a thing was to be expected. Just another cultural barrier to cross—a new horizon to explore.

The man reaches for their arms, interlocking them before shouting joyously in Zonai: _“Drink!”_

Link nods encouragingly and brings his bowl to his lips. Zelda follows suit, and together they tip them back and drink down their contents. The drink tastes strange—oddly like the sickly-musk of hearty durian, with an aftertaste of earthy sweetness not unlike endura carrot. As they untangle their arms the crowd erupts in cheers once more, and the drums beat again, heavy and echoing, interspersed among the shouts and cheers.

The bowl is taken from her and the two of them are ushered off the platform. Link takes her hand. Children throw flower petals in their path as he escorts her out of the plaza, departing the torch light’s warm glow for the silvery light of the moon. Link is smiling as he leads her through the city. Though Zelda is nervous and a tad confused, the thundering cheers from the crowd following behind them is infectious and she can’t help but smile as well.

He leads her to a brown mare on the edge of the city, bareback save for a blanket and the reins lying against its neck. He lifts her up onto its back as though she weighs nothing at all before hopping up behind her. With a final farewell to the gathered crowd, he flicks the reins and takes off, weaving between dense woodland as the mare heads up the rise, to the Chieftain’s home overlooking the city.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A reader brought to my attentions some things in the original published draft that could be interpreted as painting indigenous communities in a negative light--things I either overlooked, issues I was unaware of, or hadn't considered in my haste to finish this fic. I've gone through and made some minor changes that I hope will remedy this, and I apologize to any who felt discomfort or offense! (plus I caught a few missed typos, and there's an extra 300 words now, so... bonus?)


	2. Pleasure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW

Zelda spends the ride quelling her rising nerves. She knows what comes next. She has done her best to prepare for it, but uncertainty has always been her greatest sticking point. With her limited experience and the sordid wedding night tales imparted by the ladies of the court taking up room in her head like so much rubbish, she has trouble focusing on the certainties she _does_ have.

Her new husband is undeniably handsome, and has been nothing but kind and gentle towards her. He even put forth effort to learn her language in time for their wedding. Unlike in Hyrule, gender equity is a notable facet of Zonai society—commented on in sociological texts within the castle, and observable with her own eyes: half of the warriors sent to greet her at the city gates were women, after all. Logically it doesn’t seem unreasonable to expect she will be treated with respect on their wedding night, and she _is_ curious to know the intimate contours of her husband’s body.

But the tales of rough hands and ungratifying lovemaking still haunt her. And neither can she rid herself of the memory of his strength—how easily he had lifted her onto his steed as though she weighed nothing at all. He could so easily overpower her if he chose; could so easily take choice from her.

They arrive far too soon at the carved stone palace atop the cliff, overlooking the sprawling Capitol below. It is modest by Hylian standards, but still far more luxurious than most of the buildings in the city, save perhaps the intricate stonework dragon at the mouth of the cave leading to their sacred spring. He leaves the mare as well as his headdress in the hands of a servant at the gates, and leads her through a garden to the entrance.

The palace does not waste itself with needlessly high ceilings or an unusable number of rooms. Instead its efforts are evident in the details: carved dragon reliefs and geometric designs adorn doorways and large, unobstructed walls. He leads her up a wide flight of stairs to a second floor bedroom suite. There is an open balcony overlooking the valley below, and a large bed in the center of the room.

She stands just inside the doorway as he crosses the room to pull the curtains across the balcony arch, attempting to soothe her racing heart; but he is back before she finds calm, standing only a foot away and gazing at her with an intent expression. She struggles to smile but it comes out twisted and his eyes soften. He steps closer.

“Safe,” he murmurs, hands reaching for the arms wrapped tightly about herself. Her breath catches at his touch. She eyes him a moment, debating; then draws upon her courage, and wills herself to speak.

“I am… _afraid_ …”

His hand rises to her cheek, thumb gently stroking as he tilts his head and reassures:

“Only pleasure.”

Her cheeks flush at the blunt statement, though she knows the language barrier limits his finesse. It is a promise she wants to believe—so far she has every reason to, but the fear is difficult to shed.

He gazes at her quietly for several moments as she remains unmoving, then his hand leaves her face, trailing down her arm to her hand—the one with the scar. He interlaces their fingers, then moves towards the bed, gently tugging her along.

“I will show,” he says quietly. Tentatively, she follows.

He lays her delicately upon the bed and leans over her, lifting her palm to his lips. He holds her gaze as he tenderly kisses the scar marking her skin. The touch of his lips sends shivers up her arm, and the gesture makes her heart rate climb.

His eyes are soft as he places her palm against his cheek, and leans down slowly. Her heart is pounding, but there is an anticipation in the rush of blood—a curiosity eking its way out from beneath the fear. She can feel his warm breath on her face; smell the sweet tang of hydromelon and hearty durian they ate with desert.

She braces herself—puckers her lips; but the kiss never comes. Instead, she feels his lips press gently against her cheek—soft and careful, before pulling away. He moves to the other side of her face, and places a kiss there as well. Her eyes flutter shut as he places a kiss on her forehead, then another on the tip of her nose. She is beginning to relax as he places a kiss on her chin, and by the time his lips find hers she is ready to meet him.

He is gentle, coaxing, lips pressed softly to hers as he draws her in. His hand is at her cheek, moving slowly along her jaw, then lower, brushing his fingers along her hairline. His touch elicits a shiver, and stirs a flutter in her chest. Her hands, lying limp upon the bed beside her, tentatively rise to his chest.

He takes this as encouragement, and gently angles her head to deepen the kiss. She is unsure at first what to do, but he leads her, pulling her along into a faster rhythm. The flutter in her chest gradually sinks into her belly, igniting a gentle warmth; and her mind, earlier beset by anxiety and fear, eases into the warm, hazy tides of arousal.

After a time he pulls away, though his lips do not leave her. Instead, they find her jaw, kissing insistently along it until he reaches her neck. With a gentle tug on her hair he angles her neck to expose more flesh, laying kisses upon the sensitive skin. She pants quietly, clinging tighter to his jerkin as her arousal tingles between her legs.

He moves back up her jaw to her lips and kisses her soundly. This time her arms move to wrap around his neck, pulling his body flush against hers—seeking more of that spark. The warmth of his skin against her own is intoxicating—like a fine vintage from the castle cellars. She arches against him, fingers threading through his hair, a sudden urgent need for contact flooding through her.

It is then that their rhythm changes.

He raises his hand to her cheek, tilting her head back to kiss her deeper. His tongue runs along the seam of her lips—teasing, begging entrance. Her pulse thrums as his taste coats her lips; then, shyly, she opens to him.

His hand finds its way around the back of her neck, gripping lightly but with an edge of possession. His tongue delves: tasting, exploring, sliding tantalizingly along her own. The warmth in her belly is growing hotter, the tension in her limbs both tight and loose. The little sparks of pleasure are more frequent, now, zipping along her nerves and making her skin tingle everywhere they touch. As his tongue sweeps across hers, unthinking, she moans into his mouth.

He pulls away quite suddenly, and she is momentarily thrown. She is breathing hard as her eyes flutter open. In confusion, she blinks up at him. He stares down at her with a smoldering gaze, irises growing to crowd out the blue of his eyes. She feels strangely laid bare before him—pierced through.

He asks in accented Hylian, quiet and intent:

“Yes?”

It takes her a moment to process his question; and when she does, she does not hesitate. Her fears are quite erased, pleasure now driving her—just as he’d promised.

“ _Yes_ ,” she whispers back in his tongue.

She expects him to lean back in, to kiss her senseless as he had been a moment ago; but instead he leans back, and pulls away.

She watches curiously as he moves down to her ankles, slowly peeling away the layers of leather and hide which had been strapped there. Once her feet are bare, he begins to kiss slowly up her legs, alternating between left and right, fingertips trailing along her calves in a feather light touch. Another shiver races through her body, and as he reaches her thighs, lips laying warm, lingering kisses against her flesh, he glances up, placing a pointed kiss on her inner thigh.

Her heart skips a beat.

He continues his path up her body, laying kisses across her belly and up towards her breasts. His fingers trail in tandem, slowly turning her skin to gooseflesh despite the humid warmth. As his lips reach the bottom of the leather bind covering her breasts he returns his eyes to her.

With deft fingers he reaches for the ties at the side, slowly loosening them, never turning from her gaze. Zelda is transfixed, a lazy warmth curling and tightening in her gut as she watches him. He peels back the leather and her heart beats a staccato rhythm as she the night air caresses her, heat suffusing her cheeks as he gazes down at her with admiration. Her finger clench the rough-hewn sheets in shy embarrassment; anticipation—excitement.

He lowers his head slowly, continuing the path with his lips. He kisses between the valley of her breasts, hands sliding up her ribcage, far too close to their sensitive peaks and not nearly close enough.

When he reaches her clavicle he diverts to the side, kissing slowly up her neck. His hands reach for hers, threading their fingers before pulling them gently up and over her head. Her breath catches as he presses her wrists to the sheets and lays her bare—licks at her ear, sucks on her pulse point. Her fingers squeeze his as warmth trickles through her limbs like the waters of the sacred spring.

He pulls away, just enough to meet her gaze, and smiles at her—soft and tender, before lowering his lips to hers once more. His kiss is languid and leisurely, but passion simmers beneath the easy press of his lips—an intensity that wasn’t there before. He pulls away all too soon, but she finds it difficult to complain as his lips immediately move to her jaw, kissing up to her ear and down her neck, the suction of his lips harder than before. It makes her heart race and she tilts her head, exposing more of her skin. He takes it greedily, sucking and laving with his tongue in alternating patterns, leaving dark bruises in his wake.

As he moves lower down her body he releases her wrists and her hands move to grip his shoulders. He is firm and muscled beneath her palms, and she feels a thrill run through her as her hands explore, learning the shape of him, the roughness of the dried paint and the softness of his skin.

His hands skim her sides as he continues down her chest, peppering her with kisses. He stills when he reaches her breasts, and instead of kissing down the same path between them he moves his lips to suck gently at their peaks, tongue swirling gently around each bud. She keens, fingers digging into his shoulders, and hears him groan in response.

After a moment he continues his path, kissing down her sternum, down her belly, until he reaches the linen skirt bound tightly around her hips. He kisses around her bellybutton as he slowly unbuckles the belt, and she arches up her hips for him to remove it. Her breathing is ragged as she watches him peel away the layers of linen, revealing the tuft of blond beneath.

She feels a twinge of self-consciousness as she becomes revealed to him. He makes no sound as he tosses the belt to the floor. His hands, free of their task, move to her legs. His eyes greedily rove the markings upon her skin—and only now does she notice the nature of their pattern. They spiral around her calves and thighs in wavering designs, leading slowly, steadily, toward the apex of her thighs. They break at her mound before spiraling out like fireworks from where the belt had moments ago been strapped.

She feels foolish for not having noticed before, and takes a moment to consider Link’s markings as well. She notes a similar pattern. The designs spiral up his legs, leading to his inner thighs and explode out over his abdomen like fireworks.

She is brought back from her musings by his touch. His thumbs slowly trace the dark paint, sliding along the path left behind by the women who created them, stopping only when he reaches their end high up on her thighs, between her legs. He looks up, gazing at her carefully—scrutinizing. She doesn’t know what he’s looking for, but whatever it is he must have found it, as he offers her a devilish smirk, then uses his grip to spread her legs and lower his mouth to the pearl crowning her folds.

She gasps and reaches for the sheets as she feels his tongue press, hot and wet, against her. He is careful, lips sealing around her and tongue lying still. The gentle suction of his mouth keeps her exposed to the flat of his tongue, and his hands keeps her legs spread when she reflexively moves to clamp around his head.

When his tongue begins to move it is gentle and slow, but nonetheless leaves her dizzy. Her heart is hammering in her ears and tension pulls her limbs taut. The heat in her belly has become molten—a glowing coal he is stoking into a flame. Her hands abandon the bed for a more satisfying placement in his hair, gripping and twisting the long, messy strands with each careful movement of his tongue.

“Oh,” she gasps breathlessly, losing herself to the electricity he is creating with his mouth. As her head lolls back, she suddenly feels a finger dip inside her, and lets out another gasp.

_“Oh—!”_

She is startled at first but he is gentle, sliding in a digit as his tongue licks a slow stripe against her. A shudder passes through her and her hands tighten in his hair. He twists and turns, feeling her out, gently stretching, then carefully inserts another; and this time she is surprised not by the action, but by the pleasure it brings.

Her legs are trembling—he must surely feel it; but he does not stop. Instead he sucks a little harder, licks a little more ardently, curls his fingers and rubs against her, just-so…

She is groaning her release before she can even warn him, shaking and trembling in his hold as she rises and falls with the tide of her climax.

She doesn’t know what she expected next. For him to stop, perhaps; give her a rest now that she’s come, maybe turn her around and have his pleasure now that she’d had hers.

Instead, he keeps going.

Though his tongue falls still, the suction does not, and his fingers continue their motions gently within her. Before she can properly voice a thought, one of the hands at her thighs trails upward, to her breast, and as his fingertip brushes her nipple her thoughts are spiraling elsewhere entirely.

His touch is teasing and not nearly enough; but it does serve to send an unexpected shock to her core, reigniting the heat that had only moments ago begun to fade.

“Oh—oh…!” she pants, fingers releasing his hair to find purchase on the bed above her. She can feel her wetness dripping down her thighs, feel his lips finally pull away only to lick gently at her folds—tasting, exploring. She grips the bed tighter, and arches greedily into his mouth.

Then, all of a sudden, he pulls away with a wet plop. She opens her eyes, gazing at him muzzily as he sits upright, hastily removing his leathers and furs. Realization dawns as he tucks his thumbs into his waistband and pushes down. She can feel her cheeks heat with embarrassment—a silly thing to feel, perhaps, after what they had just done. But she does not have time to dwell on it. His erection breaks free, slapping against his thigh as he tosses the garment onto the floor and she stares, swallowing hard.

He grins cheekily at her expression, wasting no time falling atop her. He captures her lips in a searing kiss, pressing himself, hot and hard, against her wet folds. She is distracted by the warmth of his bare body and the insistence of his lips upon hers—a flurry of teeth and tongue which leaves her breathless. She only notices him move when she feels him slide wetly against her, his head rubbing her sensitive clit. She gasps, a broken shudder ripping through her when he does it again.

Then he moves a little differently, and this time the sensation is somewhat less pleasurable.

He pulls back and sheaths himself within her in one slow, steady movement, then falls still. She groans, her eyes squeezing shut at the dull ache and slight burn of the stretch. She reflexively clenches around him, making him groan too. It isn’t terribly bad—the ache is quickly receding, but it stands out starkly after the the ecstasy he had earlier brought her to.

He is gentle as he helps her adjust, fingers stroking back the braids which have fallen across her face. He lays gentle kisses along her jaw and she becomes distracted by the feeling, the flutter of his lips and bite of his teeth nipping at her neck. She feels the pleasure easily stir, rousing to life eagerly with each kiss, each teasing brush of fingertips on skin. She almost doesn’t notice him begin to move.

He starts slow, pulling out in small increments before pushing back in. The sensation is foreign but immediately pleasurable, and this time her eyes flutter closed in pleasure. Her hands move to wrap around his shoulders and hold him close as he moves against her, the nearness of his body eliciting a strange but welcome tightness in her chest. His lips move to her ear, laying kisses on her lobe before whispering to her in fervent Zonai. She cannot understand most of it, doubly distracted by the pleasure of his movements, but catches the occasional word: wife, happiness, family.

Her heart flutters.

He begins to speed up, thrusting between words, and that coal burning her core begins to spark. She wraps her legs around him, feeling the heat spread, urging it on. He fills her fully, each thrust reaching some place deep inside her that sizzles like lightning. She pants heavily, heart in her throat, and for the first time says his name aloud in a breathless whisper.

_“Link—!”_

He pulls back but doesn’t stop, gazing into her eyes, and she feels momentarily short of breath at the intensity present in them. His brow is furrowed, gaze piercing, searching their depths. Perhaps he is simply looking at her soul reflected in the green of her eyes; for in that moment she feels it surface to her skin—feels the deep binding of their union connecting more than just their bodies.

His hand moves to cup her, sliding along her thigh before he lifts her leg up onto his shoulder and turns her to a new angle. She lets out a choked gasp as she feels him slide just that little bit deeper within her. Her nails dig into his arms. Her body is strung taught. She feels a coil of pleasure spiral tighter and tighter between her legs.

“Yes—there!” she pants, and his lips move to her neck as he thrusts faster, hips moving with unerring speed. After a moment he moves again to her ear, lips pressed against the shell where he whispers her name, accented and rough but hers all the same.

_“Zel-da…”_

Hearing her name is her undoing. As he presses into her she comes with a gasping wail, nails dragging down his arms as stars erupt behind her eyelids. Moments later he comes too, groaning as he pulls her onto him and spills himself within.

Then they both fall still, panting, and hold each other close.


	3. Passion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW

They lay in lazy silence a moment before Zelda begins to laugh. She nuzzles against Link’s mane of hair which has fallen across his cheek, his forehead pressed into the bed beside her as he catches his breath. She is grateful to find her earlier fears unfounded—joyful even, to learn just how much so.

They lay in silence for several moments, their breathing slowly evening out, before link lifts himself to look at her. There is a twinkle in his eyes, and his smile is mischievous. Her brow furrows in playful suspicion. She is about to ask what he’s thinking (or at least try to), but before she can he captures her lips with his.  
  
She is finding his kiss to be stunningly hard to resist. He so easily stirs within her things such a simple press of lips should not be able to accomplish. His fingers thread languidly through her hair, and her arms rise once more to his shoulders. It feels so good to have him close like this—pressed flesh to flesh, only a faint sheen of sweat between them causing their skin to slide. Absently she wishes they could go again… He brought her to such heights, and the phantom echo of her climax still rings within her. But he surely needs a rest—after all he did most of the work…

But the way he is _kissing her_ … His fingertips glide along her scalp as he drags his lips across hers in a way that makes her heart skip beats. Arousal still swirls within her, and as his tongue slides easily past her lips she feels that arousal flutter and dance like a leaf on the wind.

She is distracted by his kiss when he suddenly rolls them over, lips still pressed to hers and length still sheathed within her. She gasps, startled, into his mouth before pulling away somewhat reluctantly. She is on top now, he below her, and she eyes him with a curious tilt of her head. Instead of words he offers a deep but gentle thrust to show his intentions, and she lets out a gasping “oh” at the pleasurable ache the movement creates. She blinks down at him as he falls still, then asks:  
  
“You… don’t you want a break? Or, um… _Rest_?” she amends in accented Zonai. He grins up at her, cheeky and devilish, and shakes his head. He accentuates the gesture with another gentle thrust and her eyes flutter shut as she subconsciously grinds against him.

“Stop?” he asks in Hylian.

Based on his tone she strongly suspects he already knows her answer; but still she shakes her head and bites her lip, laying her hands readily upon his chest. With a handsome smirk he moves again, pushing up from his position on the bed to thrust into her. His hands trail up her sides, glancing over her breasts before falling back down to grip her waist. He gives a final roll of his hips, then his movements stop and he looks to her expectantly. She stares back, uncertain, and after several moments he gently squeezes her waist and nods with his chin.

“I am yours.”

She stares down at him—at her fingers splayed across his firm chest, at the trusting, waiting look in his eyes. Her cheeks heat as his desire becomes clear. It is… a different thing to be the one in control. She is inexperienced—doesn’t even know where to start… Doesn’t know how to please him the way he pleased her.

She wants to, though.

“I… I don’t know what to do,” she admits quietly, her face flushing hot. Link cocks his head and she scrambles for the right words in his language. “I, um… _not know_ …”

Link smiles softly and huffs a quiet laugh, raising a hand to her cheek. His thumb brushes over one kiss-swollen lip before his hand slides slowly down her jaw, teasing the skin between the valley of her breasts and snaking down her belly until it reaches the place where they are joined. She shivers at the touch.

“Follow,” he says softly, offering her an encouraging smile.

It is only when she looks down at his hand that she notices—and realizes, for the first time, the purpose of the patterns which adorn their bellies.

They are, the both of them, an image—two halves of a whole. His markings mirror hers. A half circle arcs from one hip to the other, with rays rising from it in sharp, precise lines like the rays of a bright sunrise. A half circle arcs over her hips as well, but the tendrils which rise from it are softer, wavering faintly as they travel up her belly, like the rays of a warm sunset.

Together, they create a sun, one only visible when their bodies are connected in this intimate way. The sight of it is… unexpectedly moving. When she was painted earlier in the afternoon she had thought it to be no more than primitive decoration. Now, as she puts the night into perspective, she is beginning to understand the depth and beauty of their wedding traditions, and the manner in which she has been so warmly welcomed into them. Her heart squeezes, and a smile rises tremulously to her face.

Despite her uncertainty, this realization gives her the courage to try leading—to explore this new territory with him, and trust in his partnership. With a shaky breath she lifts her hips, and begins to move.

Her movements are slow and unpracticed, rising unsteadily up and shakily down his length. His hands trail lightly over the paint on her arms and thighs, only now beginning to flake off and smear. He finds her breasts, palms cupping them gently as she rides him, thumbs brushing over her nipples with each downward slide.

It actually feels… quite good, to be in control; to be able to chase her own pleasure with each movement—not needing to wait for him to hit the right spot but merely take it as she pleases. Her core aches with a tight, tense pleasure as she grinds, following that delicious roil with each rise and fall—in the angle of her body, the arch of her back. She shuts her eyes, feeling out the sensations—losing herself in the brush of his fingertips on the peak of her breasts, in the aching pressure of his length buried so deep inside her.

He watches her intently, reverently, hands tight on her hips when they are not on her breasts, eyes dark and piercing. It sends a shiver up her spine and a spark to her core; to know he likes watching her—that he’s aroused by her agency, her selfish usury.

Her movements speed up and her breathing grows ragged. She is close, now—can feel that star burst almost within reach. Harder down, faster up—she rides him as she pleases, fingers curling into fists atop his chest. Almost there, _almost_ …

She slides down hard, grinding against him, and suddenly she is seeing those stars again, back arching as she howls; and a moment later he groans too, finding release within her own.

She falls forward, panting, and his arms wrap around her. He smiles into her hair and kisses her hair line, fingertips running down her shoulder blades. She hums contentedly as she catches her breath, floating peacefully atop the steady rise and fall of his chest.

After a moment she sits up and looks down at him with a satisfied smile; but that gaze which greets her is not one of lazy satisfaction as she expects. That twinkle in his eye is still there, the mischievous twist of his lips hinting of still more to come. She quickly learns this assumption is not wrong.

His hand reaches for her bent knee, lifting it and slowly spinning her atop him. He is still hard and doesn’t slip free and as she settles facing his feet; then he pulls her down against his chest, her back to his front, and lays his arm across her belly.

Her head falls onto the bed beside his and she turns to face him, squeezing around his hardened length in astonishment. She may be inexperienced but she does still know how male biology is _supposed_ to work.

 _“How?”_ she gasps. He shift within her, the friction of his movements more acute, now, after three consecutive rounds. She can hear his throaty chuckle in her ear, then he murmurs by way of explanation:

“Wedding Drink.”

She blinks a moment, taking in the information, before she huffs a laugh as well. She will have to remember to inquire of _that_ later as well.

She merely lies atop him, limp, for a while, his arms tight around her waist. She nuzzles into his cheek and she can feel his lips pull back in a smile. She uses her nose to brush aside his hair so she can kiss his skin, and as she presses her lips against his cheek she feels his hands begin to move.

They trail lazily up her belly to her breasts, circle her nipple in wide, trailing arcs. Her nose stills against his cheek and she inhales sharply, nipples peaking in anticipation of a touch that never comes. His other hand slides down, fingers trailing through her sparse blond curls until they reach their destination. Then, his hands fall still.

“Yes?” He murmurs quietly in her ear.

His fingers are so close to where she wants them she feels as though she is vibrating in anticipation—a harp string plucked and resonating, waiting for the next brush of fingertips to continue the melody. She nods vigorously, and follows up the shaky movement with a breathless, _“Yes.”_

She is hypersensitive after so much stimulation, and he barely has to brush his fingers against her before she is writhing in his grasp.

“Oh—oh _Hylia_ …”

He begins to move within her as well, slowly—as slow as he had when first he entered her. Her neck arcs back with a choked gasp, and her hands fly up to his hair where she tangles her fingers and _tugs_ with each shock of pleasure he brings her. His pace within her never speeds and she can feel every minute movement—every inch of friction and pressure as he pushes into her.

His fingers at her clit draw her slowly, lazily higher, stoking a heat that steadily grows; but she is already burning hot, and wants it hotter— _needs_ the scorch of rawness and the pressure and friction of his length _moving_ within her if she is to find release. She wriggles in his grasp, seeking rougher contact; but he keeps his gentle touch—his slow pace. A laugh rumbles at her ear and she wriggles harder, but his grip on her only tightens.

“Oh… faster, please—” she begs between breaths, grip tightening on his hair. “Please, I—I need…”

Link is unmoved by her pleas, continuing his slow, gradual movements. Perhaps they are simply not words he knows in Hylian—or perhaps he merely wishes to torture her; so she searches her addled mind for a word in his language that might engender the response she so desires.

_“Husband…!”_

His body suddenly grows tense beneath hers, then she feels him convulse, piercing her with one deep, rough thrust as he growls in her ear and spills himself inside her. His palm rubs hard against her clit and his hand tightly grips her breast…

And finally, blessedly, she breaks.

She screams her release, voice hoarse and broken, a tidal wave of ecstatic white breaking upon her like the rocky shore of the Lanayru sea. She falls slack, panting, her mind drifting high among the clouds. She is dimly aware of Link’s stillness beneath her, his breathing slowly evening out alongside her own.

When finally her heart has reached some semblance of calm he rolls them both to the side, and gently pulls out of her.

She feels the loss of him keenly, having grown used to the sensation of being filled. She is struck now by an ache of a different kind. Liquid dribbles out and down her thighs—his release, no doubt, after three straight rounds. But she doesn’t mind. She wriggles in his hold, turning tiredly to face him. She places her hands gently upon his chest and his arm moves to wrap around her back. There is a content smile on her face, and a similar one gracing his own features.

 _“Rest?”_ she asks hoarsely, and he nods.

“Rest,” he confirms.

She gives him one more bright smile before burrowing into his chest. He smells of sweat and sex and the earthy must of the forest. It is a smell she thinks she could get used to. He pulls her closer, and she tangles her legs with his, humming contentedly.

“I don’t know if you will understand this,” she begins quietly, “But... that was _wonderful_. I have been told so many unfortunate tales of the wedding nights of noblewomen. Even when they are good, they… aren’t like _this_.”

He says nothing, merely strokes her back gently. She pulls away briefly to catch his eye, and says softly in his tongue:

_“Thank you.”_

He smiles down at her with a bemused expression, pulling back his arm to reach for her hand. His fingertips trace the scar which adorns her palm and he says, low and reverently:

 _“Nev at oleck.” We are bonded._ Then, he curls her fingers, and holds her fist against his chest.

“Safe,” he clarifies in Hylian.

She feels moisture prickle at the corner of her eyes and smiles tremulously up at him. She pulls her fist from his grasp and raises it to his cheek, pulling him in for a kiss.

 _“Nev at oleck,”_ she whispers against his lips, before drawing him in.

-:-:-:-:-

She awakes the next morning with the rise of the sun.

The pale blue light of early morning presses insistently against her eyelids, and a persistent ache in her lower back drags her from peaceful slumber. She blinks awake slowly, raising a hand to rub at her eyes. She marvels at the tension lacing her bicep, and carefully rolls her shoulder to get the blood moving; but that too seems tight and aching. Experimentally, she attempts to sit up—but she quickly falls back to the bed, groaning into her pillow.

Clearly five rounds… was too much. Oh, but what a _good_ five rounds they were…

He woke her at some point shortly after they drifted off, his fingertips splayed across her belly as his length pressed against her from behind. After he brought her to a magnificent peak, they fell back asleep; only for her to wake him hours later, eager to ride him once more.

She lays still and takes several deep breaths, making a quick mental catalog of her body’s woes. She tries to lift her legs, but they tremble from overexertion. Her core aches painfully and her lower back hurts. She suspects the two ailments are connected. Even her neck and shoulders are stiff. She huffs up at the ceiling, lying unmoving upon the sheets.

How is she even supposed to get out of bed?

She rolls over, reaching out an arm to search for her husband, but he is nowhere to be found. She glances about the dimly lit room—as much as she can observe without straining her neck, but sees him nowhere.

“Link?” She calls out uncertainly. She is met with no reply.

Unsure what else to do she attempts to find a more comfortable position in which to rest her aching limbs. She drifts, sliding in and out of a light sleep; but it doesn’t last long, as soon she is awoken by the sound of heavy footfalls.

She blinks her eyes open in time to see Link walking through the doorway, wearing little more than a throw blanket tied about his waist. He is carrying a wooden tray laden with items and she smiles at him, attempting to rise from bed; but he gestures for her to remain as she is, striding quickly across the room towards her.

He settles cross-legged on the bed beside her, setting the tray in his lap. He reaches first for a mortar and pestle, grinding at a paste in the bowl before scooping a dollop of it onto a slice of hydromelon and handing it to her.

She takes it uncertainly, eying the green paste with distaste.

_“What… this?”_

He smiles sheepishly, ruffling the hair on the back of his head.

“Wedding drink,” he begins slowly, thoughtfully, hands motioning as he struggles to find the words. _“Atek os a_ good for pleasure… _velok et aeyar uso_ may not feel good in morning.”

She blinks at him, then lets out a laugh.

“So… _medicine_?” she asks. He nods vigorously, and extends the fruit towards her.

_“Medicine.”_

She takes the slice from him and takes a bite, quickly swallowing down the bitter green paste. Link hands her another slice, this one untainted, and she washes down the bitterness with its sweet, musky flavor.

 _“Thank you,”_ she says gratefully in accented Zonai. She places her hand on his thigh and gives it a squeeze. He covers it gently with his own before lifting it to his lips to place a lingering kiss on the back of her hand.

Zelda smiles, wide and blissful. Though the turn of fate which landed her here was unexpected, she can’t help but feel happy it did. She knows they still have so much to learn about one another—and about their respective cultures; but she finds she is looking forward to it, and has a happy feeling that their union will have many good days ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand done! I hope you all enjoyed! This was a lot of fun to write, and a bit of a challenge. The good kind. I feel energized and ready to tackle some of my smut WIPS (yay!). Thank you everyone who kicked the hit count up to 1,000 in like. Three days. (I am still absolutely blown away by that, just. wat). And thank you so much to everyone who has left such glowing comments! <3


End file.
